


Based Upon Tradition

by Synekdokee



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Child Abuse, I hope, M/M, Sibling Incest, age disparity, mentions of underage sexuality, not as messed up as you'd think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later Charles grew to understand that leaving him behind hadn’t been Erik’s choice. He knew staying would have been impossible, with how hostile Kurt had been towards anyone who threatened his newly gained status as the man of the house. </p><p>Their mother had invoked the names of the family lawyers, making Erik powerless for as long as Charles was underage. Erik couldn’t have taken Charles with him if he’d wanted to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Based Upon Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicedpiano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/gifts).



> For dearest Spicy, a belated birthday fic. She threw me a bunny of Charles and Erik as brothers, with Erik in his 30's and Charles half his age, estranged from each other, forming an incestuous relationship. This will probably end up being less emotionally messed up than it should be, but I hope it does the job. Happy birthday Spicy <3
> 
>  
> 
> (My thanks to the wondrous Wallhaditcoming and Rozf for betaing, and Ike for moral support.)

Charles was six years old when his brother moved out. He remembered the shouting, his new step-father’s absence, and Erik’s raised voice against their mother’s icy tone.

  
Charles sat on the great, curving stone staircase when Erik emerged from the library, his face red and stormy. He spotted Charles, expression softening as he crouched down to look Charles in the eye. He brushed one large thumb across Charles’s wet cheek, just like their father had done when Charles had been little and cried often.

“Hey, Charlie,” Erik said softly, smiling at him gently. “Don’t cry. You gotta be a big boy now.”

 

Charles remembered Erik climbing into a taxi two days later, carrying nothing but a stuffed duffle-bag. Charles had watched as his brother left for freedom Charles was too young to desire. He bit his lips so he wouldn’t cry. He’d already learned that crying would only bring trouble.

At first Charles had been too young to fully understand. After a few years as the only outlet for Kurt’s anger and cruelty, Charles thought of Erik sullenly, bitterly. Erik had abandoned him, even after they had sworn to stick together in the wake of their father’s death.

He threw away all the cards and letters unopened and unanswered, hoping – and fearing – Erik would stop writing.

 

He didn’t.

 

Later Charles grew to understand that leaving him behind hadn’t been Erik’s choice. He knew staying would have been impossible, with how hostile Kurt had been towards anyone who threatened his newly gained status as the man of the house.

  
His mother spent more time in a drunken haze, telling Charles about his responsibilities as the heir to the Xavier fortune, her oldest son having turned his back on her husband’s legacy. As she slurred her list of the people she wanted her 11-year-old son to contact to manage the estate, Charles was reminded of the shouting he’d heard from the library before Erik had walked out.

  
The snatches of a screamed conversation now meant more than Erik rebelling, more than him just leaving his little brother to neglect. Their mother had invoked the names of the family lawyers, making Erik powerless for as long as Charles was underage. Erik couldn’t have taken Charles with him if he’d wanted to.

  
It didn’t erase the hurt, not even in a child as rational and grown up as Charles. But he was used to disappointments, and a let-down that didn't feel like his own fault was easier to bear.

  
Eventually Charles started writing back.

 

The first time Erik returned was six years after he’d left. He arrived on Thanksgiving, exchanged terse civilities with their mother and Kurt. They spent a bright afternoon in Charles’s room, playing games Charles hadn’t played in years, Erik sneaking in chocolates with a sly smile and a promise to spoil Charles’s appetite for dinner or so help him.

No one invited Erik to stay for dinner (though Charles hoped so hard he thought his little heart might burst), and Erik didn’t ask. Charles’s eyes burned when Erik hugged their mother stiffly goodbye.

 

Charles never found out whether Erik was ever actually invited, but he continued to show up once or twice a year for his holidays of choice. Charles sometimes hated him for it, for making him wait for each holiday with a sort of nauseous, clawing expectation, only to be let down when Erik failed to show up.

 

When Charles turned 15, Erik was there to deliver his present in person for the first time in years. Charles was reading in the garden, avoiding his step-father and Cain, who was back for the summer. He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close. He looked up to his brother standing in front of him, tanned and trim and looking thoroughly amused.

Charles stared at him speechless, before finally standing up and offering Erik his hand awkwardly. Erik grinned, familiar-yet-not, and yanked Charles into a tight hug until Charles thought he might choke. Charles squeezed his eyes shut against Erik’s shoulder, and didn’t cry.

  
That was the only time Erik stayed overnight. He took the guestroom next to Charles, avoiding his old room, now empty of everything except the bed, a desk, and a heavy mahogany wardrobe Charles remembered hiding in during playtime.

 

When Charles slipped into Erik’s bed that night - a reproduction of the nights a frightened boy had sought safety in the presence of the only responsible adult in the house - Erik said nothing. He laid still in the hollow glow of the moon, sharp eyes reflecting the silvery light as Charles slid under the covers and curled his thin, chilled body against Erik, cold fingers brushing against the hot skin of Erik’s side.

In the morning Charles woke up half-hard with hormones and the memory of Erik’s body curving to welcome him.

  
Erik wouldn’t meet his eye.

 

When Erik left, their mother didn’t come to say goodbye. Erik touched a curl of hair on Charles’s temple and gave him a smile that made Charles’s chest feel tight.

“I guess I missed you growing up,” Erik said, his voice filled with pride and something a lot sadder.

 

He didn’t visit after that, but he wrote more frequently, telling Charles of his new job and the house he’d bought, and his friends – of which he didn’t have many. He never mentioned girlfriends, and Charles imagined him with faceless one-night stands, his brother’s hands on smooth, creamy skin, his mouth kissing cherry-red lips, and ignored the sharp flares of jealousy.

 

The next time Charles saw Erik was four months after his sixteenth birthday. He showed up at Erik’s doorstep, wearing a bulging backpack and a bruise on his cheek.


End file.
